who must turn
everything to words while they, so alive
need so few to speak their loves.
– Keith Wilson (“The Streets of San Miguel”)
Some sing, so under-joyed that the trees weep
beneath a veil of blues, a song that struggles,
wriggles to be set free as a missive to the gods
grown deaf to the old tunes. Some can whistle
in the dawn to claim the dark shade, but when
the sky slips down the mountain like a fog,
I see all the dear faces gone and search my box
of words, reaching deeply as I dare, when
holding-on to a kind thought is often enough.
in memory of Jane Nash & Old Visalia—
‘a true friend from beginning to end.’
drycrikjournal 